By cool Siloam’s shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon’s dewy rose! Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God. By cool Siloam’s shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man’s maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power, And stormy passion’s rage. O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father’s shrine, Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Were all alike divine; Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us still thine own.
“By cool Siloam’s shady rill”
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